


Understand

by amfiguree



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You stare. You don't mean to, but the peaceful rise and fall of his chest captivates you, and you watch, in rapt fascination, as the sunlight splays across his face, angles of light and shadow accentuating his features, trapping the tranquility of the moment. For a second, you almost wish that time would stop, leave you gazing at him, sleeping, never to wake again. For a second, you think, you know, that this could be your whole world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understand

_Sunlight when you wake up  
Fills the first breath that you take  
Of the air that we both share so well_  
  
You stare. You don't mean to, but the peaceful rise and fall of his chest captivates you, and you watch, in rapt fascination, as the sunlight splays across his face, angles of light and shadow accentuating his features, trapping the tranquility of the moment. For a second, you almost wish that time would stop, leave you gazing at him, sleeping, never to wake again. For a second, you think, you _know_ , that this could be your whole world.  
  
It might sound like some clichéd song used one too many times to still be potent in its meaning, you know that, too, but it's the best you can come up with at seven in the morning, with his beauty taking away mostly any coherent thought you might have been able to summon up. And you're not the poetical one, anyway – that's his department – so you suppose you can excuse yourself.  
  
A smile creeps across your face, as he mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep-induced confusion, probably something abstract about the color of the sky or the sound of the sea, or something else along those lines. And even though you can't wait to see those azure eyes looking back up at you – sparkling with emotion, with passion, with an unquenchable thirst for life, so rarely seen in the normal person's eyes – right now you're contented just watching him sleep, because, in all actuality, you know you're deep in denial, refusing to face reality, and what he might do – and probably will do – when he wakes up.   
  
So you'd rather spend the next hour or so lying in bed, next to him, close but never close enough, because for you nothing is close enough. Nothing ever will be. Because something is always missing. Something that you've learnt to stop looking out for, to stop hoping for, to stop waiting for. Something that you've realized is never going to be yours.  
  
So you don't wait, you linger. And you don't hope, you watch.  
  
Maybe he senses your eyes, or he just feels like surprising you this morning; maybe it has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with his messed up body clock, but he wakes up much earlier than you thought he would.  
  
You know, even though he doesn't say a word, doesn't open his eyes, doesn't do anything besides breathe, that he's awake, because he's taking a deep breath, and it's the first thing he does every morning, before he stretches. It's almost as though he's testing the air – the same way Stacey used to stick her toe into the swimming pool to assess the temperature, before plunging in with a loud giggle – and allowing his body to get used to the fact that he's going to have to be conscious of his surroundings for the next fifteen hours or so.  
  
You manage a smile, and take a deep breath as well, just to remind yourself that the two of you breathe the same air, if nothing else.  
  
And for a split second, just before you know he's going to open his eyes, and stretch, and go through the same routine he has to go through to wake himself up every morning, you give yourself a moment, and stare just a while longer.  
  
 _Slowly you begin to rise  
And all the dreams left in my eyes  
Come true as far as I can tell_  
  
He sighs, finally pulling himself out of dreamland, you can tell, because his eyelids are fluttering just a little, hovering close to the edge of consciousness, needing only one small push to send him reeling back to reality.  
  
"Lance?" he blinks, slightly awake now, and you smile at how adorable he looks, even when he's not trying – you know how charming he can be when he wants to be.   
  
This is the side of him you really love, though, natural and completely at peace with the world, with himself, with _you_. That's the most difficult part to believe, you suppose, because it's as if he's opening himself up completely to you, and letting you really see him, really learn him, appreciate him, and that's something you don't think you could ever manage, not with him, not like this. "Yeah?"  
  
He smiles, rubbing his eyes, and sitting up, very slowly. "Slept well?"  
  
You can't help but smile back, because that's what his smile does – it lights up his face, and his eyes crinkle up, and he shows all his teeth, and it's probably the most beautiful thing you'll ever see, you often think – it makes everyone who sees it want to smile back; he's just that irresistible. "Yeah. Did you?"  
  
"Mmm." He shrugs a little; yawning and stretching luxuriously out on the bed, and lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and a purr that makes your heart melt.  
  
"You were talking in your sleep again."  
  
He chuckles, and it sounds almost sheepish, as he lifts a hand to rub his eyes. "Really? Did I wake you? Man, I'm sorry."  
  
"Nah," you smile, "I like listening to you."  
  
"I probably didn't even make sense!"  
  
"Doesn't matter. I like listening to you." You repeat yourself, sounding like a broken record to your own ears, almost as though you're trying to prove something to him, or yourself. Or both of you. Trying to prove that you don't know what's going on, that the problems are all in your own mind, because no matter what has happened or will happen, this is a beautiful, beautiful dream, and you never want to wake up.  
  
He's silent for a while, not confirming, or denying, your unspoken message, then he smiles at you, pushing the awkwardness away like he always does, before leaning over to brush his lips over yours, and sparks explode behind your eyelids as they flutter shut, even as you try to feel the slightest hint of anger at his dismissal of the moment. "You romantic, you."  
  
You forget that you're supposed to be annoyed as your whole world spins for a moment, and all you can think is that everything you've ever dreamt of in your entire life has come true in that one instant. All the Popsicles and the bright, sunny days, and the birthday cakes, and the presents under the Christmas tree, and dancing in the rain, and the dreams of fame and wealth … none of it can compare to what you have now, because you have him. "Don't kid yourself, C. You're the romantic one, and we all know it."  
  
He shrugs, lips quirking up a little. "Well, I'm with you, Lance. So you must have a romantic side tucked in that businessman front somewhere, or I wouldn't be here."  
  
You really are a hopeless romantic, you decide, and also fucking cliché – because when he leans in to give you a deeper kiss, lips moist and full, tongue hot and sweet and demanding, you know that you wouldn't care if your careers came tumbling down around you right this instant, and you were never allowed to sing again; you could throw it all away, your life, your family, your future, all for this one moment.  
  
 _With lightning in your laughter  
Shining brightly after  
You tell me all that's on your mind_  
  
You sigh as he pulls away, and gives you a languid grin, before sprawling out on the bed again with a thump. And you think, for a second, that you'd like to hear the bed thump for other reasons, but then he's talking, and it interrupts your thoughts.  
  
"… had the strangest dream last night."  
  
You almost laugh at the way his hands are moving, full of animation and enthusiasm, nearly swiping the lamp off the bedside table as they swerve violently, knocking a glass of water over in the process.  
  
"We were lamas."  
  
"What?" You look up, right at him, tearing your eyes from his lips, not quite sure you heard him right. "We what?"  
  
"We were lamas." He grins, shrugging. "Chris had a goatee. And then a chipmunk came and ate it."  
  
An incredulous smile flits over your face, and he catches it, giggling a little. "J was the little diva of the forest, and then he fell over some weird ass looking spider and. Well. Got eaten, too."  
  
"Gee, Jace, that's a real nice dream."  
  
"Well, at least we didn't die."  
  
"How about Joey?"  
  
"Joey wasn't in my dream." JC makes a face, and you want to tell him to shut up and just please, kiss you already. "Joey as a lama would be weird."  
  
"Oh, so the rest of us look good as lamas. Is that what you're trying to say?"  
  
JC laughs, and it's beautiful. Like the call of a lark on a sunny day – the kind of days where you know everything's going to be great, the kind you can't help laughing along to, the kind that makes you stop and stare and wonder in amazement at the god-given gifts some people own without realizing they do. His laughter is rich and tangible and _flavored_. You can taste it, almost, like too-sweet honey and warm, golden sunshine thickly spread over buttered toast.   
  
You smile.  
  
Sometimes you wonder why you love him.  
  
And it's times like these you know.  
  
 _Morning brings the best of me  
When all you are is next to me  
And love is all I can find_  
  
"Shit," you mutter, against his lips, untangling your hand from his hair, trying to get hold of your cell and kiss him at the same time, because the damn ringing is starting to annoy you, and that's an impossible feat when he's wrapped around you the way he is, – getting annoyed, that is – but it's happening.  
  
"Leave it," he whispers, taking your hand and twining his fingers around yours, pulling you close again.  
  
"Good idea." Your frown disappears as you slip your other hand under his shirt, craving the skin-on-skin contact. Heat and want and lust, swirling in a never-ending blend of color and vivacity, merging together so you don't know where one starts and the other ends.  
  
You pull back, breathless, liquid fire burning through your veins, your lungs. "Jace. I-"  
  
You think he probably knows what you're trying to say – it has to be written in your eyes. Powerful and sure and overwhelming. So he cuts you off. Like he does every time you try to start this discussion. He covers your lips with his own, quiet and soothing, almost like he's trying to comfort a six-year-old gone too long without a nap.  
  
You want to feel frustrated. But you can't. Not when his lips are on yours, and his hand is in your hair, tugging at the un-gelled strands of honey-blond. But you try again, anyway, when he finally pulls back to smile at you.  
  
"I lo-"  
  
He's not going to let you succeed. You should have seen it coming. It never works out the way you want it to. He won't let it. So you sigh, and let him tilt your neck to the side with two gentle fingers, sucking on your skin with lips red with experience, biting and licking and leaving soft purple marks that you know you're going to be teased about.  
  
"Like that?" He's purring, and you swallow. Hard. Your senses are already reeling, overwhelmed just by his presence. He trails a finger down your chest, and you blink with the realization that he's already gotten your shirt off without you noticing. You look up, and his eyes are warm and sparkling and so damn blue. And you think you could drown in those eyes.  
  
"How about we take a rain-check on that breakfast with J? I have a feeling we won't need it." His voice is low, suggestive, and you can see the slightest trace of a smirk in his face. His hand is already working on your boxers, lightly brushing against the soft material in a way that makes you gasp.  
  
You don't even have to nod for him to sense your approval.  
  
 _And I want to understand  
Said I want to understand_  
  
You arrive at the venue twenty minutes late, still tucking awkward strands of clothing back into place. Justin sees you first, and he grins, shaking his head and waving a finger in the air, but you know he doesn't mean it.  
  
The same way you know Joey doesn't mean it when he sighs and says, "Finally. Can we get started sometime today, please?" And then walks over to lift JC over a shoulder and dunk him onto a couch. "C, man, you gotta learn to contain your urges. I mean, this is Madam Tussaud, dude. It's awesome."  
  
But when Chris walks silently into the room, eyes hard and cold, you're not so sure he's joking around. JC's smile fades when he looks up, and you feel your heart plunge to your shoes. "Go." With a slight toss of his head, Chris walks out the door again. The rest of you follow suit, subdued, JC hanging his head like a lost puppy.   
  
His eyes never meet yours.  
  
So as far as humanly possible for the next few hours, you try to stay away from JC. And Chris. You look at yourself, at the group, and you shake your head. You really should feel something more, you think, because they've recreated _you_ , and really, why would they want to do that? But they have. And looking at yourself and JC both recreated gives you a very hollow feeling inside. Why would they recreate you and JC together? When JC has talent that you don't?  
  
It doesn't feel right, somehow.  
  
The thoughts you're starting to have leave a bitter aftertaste in your mouth, and you look away, deciding to stop thinking. How far has thinking ever gotten you, anyhow?  
  
So you walk around the wax museum, looking as interested as PR permits, nodding at some of the other more realistic wax figurines, laughing in all the right places as Joey tells some of his lamer jokes that you know you've already heard a million times.  
  
But you appreciate him for it, because at least it helps you take your mind off… other things. And it's familiar and comfortable and. And then you think that maybe, just maybe, this is how JC feels when he's around you. Comfortable. Familiar. It's so easy to fall prey to the habitual presence of each other, to take each other for granted. Maybe that's how JC sees it. Maybe that's how it is. Maybe that's _all_ it is.  
  
You know you're just adding the maybes to make yourself feel better.  
  
Chris' eyes follow you the whole time, even though you refuse to acknowledge it. You think he's going to walk up to you any moment, but then you're jerked out of your thoughts, and it's smile for the cameras, smile for the reporters, laugh and act cuddly with the other guys – the fans are going to love it – and smile for the rest of the world. After you feel completely torn down and exhausted, finally, finally, _finally_ , they let you leave.  
  
You're just thankful Chris doesn't have a chance to speak with you.  
  
You don't hang around too long, even though there's an after-party, mainly because JC's getting stoned, and you know that one minute longer might leave you stoned, too, so you can escape the confines of your own brain, and who's going to drive you home then? So you scoop him up in your arms, nod and smile again, and leave once you've stayed long enough that's it's not considered rude.  
  
 _'Till then I'll watch you sleep  
Count each moment by your heartbeat  
And pray that you'll be dreaming of me_  
  
You watch him while you drive. It fascinates you, even though you do it every morning. His lips are parted slightly, and his breathing is even, calm, his eyes shut gently, serene and at peace with the world. You like watching the way the lines of his face dip and change and disappear when the light from the passing streetlamps shadows his face at different angles. You smile, as you come to a slow stop at a traffic junction, reaching out to trace the outline of his face with a soft finger.  
  
You brush a strand of hair out of his face, and you like the way he stirs slightly, leaning into your touch, incoherent words on his lips. You stay that way for a long time, you think – it feels like it's been an eternity, but it's still not enough. It's never enough; the dizzying sensations that pulsate through your body every time you're around him, the rush of blood to your head every time he laughs.  
  
You tilt your head, studying him, a ghost of a smile crossing your face. The moment feels special, almost like it's you and him alone in the entire fucking world, and you couldn't feel better about it. You like feeling alone with him. It's solitude, and you yearn for it pretty much every second you're with him. Or without.   
  
You lean over slowly, breathing a little quicker than usual, gently brushing your lips over his. "Oh," you sigh. And then suddenly someone hoots, and you lurch forward with a start, cutting your lip against his teeth. "Fuck!" You swear, and you pull back, stepping automatically on the accelerator, without really being prepared to drive.  
  
You swerve a bit, signing apologetically to the guy behind you, but you're all right – shaken, but all right; your hands grip the steering wheel unsteadily. Then you cast a quick glance at him, wondering if his teeth hurt, and then you're just thankful he's still quiet – hasn't even stirred, actually. You shake your head, a spurt of your own low rumble of laughter halfway calming your frazzled nerves.   
  
You sigh when JC purrs, mumbling in his sleep. Then you pull over, telling yourself it's only for a second, just to rest your eyes. You know it's all bullshit, but you kill the engine anyway, glad that there's no one around at this time of night. You lean over, again, breathing in his scent, leaning your head on his shoulder gently, feeling the pulsing beat of his heart. And you close your eyes, feeling exhausted.   
  
What was that phrase, again? 'Plead the fleeting moment to remain.' Something like that. And when you sit up straight again, you understand. You can still feel his heartbeat. One… two… three… four… calm, slow, tranquil. And all you can think as you look at him is: god, I wish we could stay like this forever.  
  
You think of the times before the hiatus, when N'sync was still young and innocent and nothing more than a band of five brothers trying their luck in a crazy, cruel world. Times when you would smile at him, and he'd smile right back, fingers curling gently around your own, breath warm against your neck, blue eyes blazing with happiness. Comfort.  
  
You think of the times the guys laughed, and jokingly told you that the only reason you ever agreed to accompany JC to art museums was 'cause you were one of the 'boring ones', but then JC would smile at you, and you'd know the others couldn't be more wrong; you weren't boring, not really – if they had put you on a museum tour you'd have fallen asleep almost instantly – but you suppose love works in funny ways.  
  
You think of the way you'd run your fingers through his hair, contented watching him sleep, and Justin would walk past and shake his head, laughing, and tell you to 'grow up, and stop acting like a love-struck teenie, god, Lance'. But then he'd smile and ruffle your hair, and drop a kiss on JC's forehead, grin and look for all the world like a proud father, and then shuffle away. You'd always known he'd been happy for the two of you.  
  
You think back to the times you watched him dance, feeling the heat pool in your groin, and liquid fire racing through your veins when he turned to you, mouthing the words 'fucking sexy', and you'd know he was talking about you, and you'd blush, feel yourself wanting him more than ever. He'd grin at your obvious discomfort when your jeans suddenly seemed far too tight, and wink, whispering 'later', which you knew was meant for your ears alone, and your cheeks would flame a dark red.  
  
Then you look back down at JC, and your eyes scrunch up at the memories, laughter lines creasing a little more. And you wonder if he's dreaming of you, remembering these moments the way you are. You hope and you pray, pretending you don't know better.  
  
 _With a whisper just like thunder  
It's a spell you've got me under_  
  
You manage to get home at last, without further interruption, and you're glad the drive home is over, because you need a shower – a cold, cold shower, by the looks of things – since JC's obviously not in any condition to help you solve your problem.  
  
Opening the front door to the house you share, you shift him carefully in your arms, amazed at the way he's still so incredibly light, at the way he seems so pliant, so helpless, so fucking _gorgeous_ in your arms. He fits, nose nuzzled in your arm, cheek pressed lightly against your chest, lips slightly open against your fingers, curled up and sleeping, a warm bundle of puppy-dog adorableness and oblivious sexiness.  
  
You carry him gently into your room, putting him lightly onto the bed. His socks come off first, and then his pants, and you pull his shirt as gently as you can over his head – you needn't have worried; he doesn't stir. Then you pull the covers up to his chin, press a kiss to his forehead, and head for the shower.  
  
It's cold, refreshing almost, when the spray of water hits your face, and slides down your body, clothing discarded in a pile by the door. You scrub a hand down your face, and take care of your aching body as best as you can, considering how wired and high-strung you feel right now.  
  
When you get out of the shower, you glance at the bed, wondering if you should just forget about clothes, and get into bed in the nude. You finally decide that, tempting as it sounds, JC wouldn't be jumping with joy if he woke up to you, completely hard, nestled against his back – not that it hasn't happened before. He just likes mornings to be quiet, and open to whatever he feels like doing.  
  
So you get into a comfortable set of clothes, and snuggle in next to him, smiling at the look of completely relaxation on his face. You close your eyes, moving as close to him as possible, reaching out instinctively to wrap an arm around his waist. He breathes right in your face, and you can't help opening your eyes for another look.  
  
Your hand moves slowly, but after a while you reach up and almost run a finger down the side of his cheek. Almost. But then you pull away, because, you decide, you'd rather watch this moment play itself out, and you don't want to break the spell – it feels magical, just watching him, even though you know you're too old to believe in magic – that seems to be on him, on the whole room, really.  
  
You sigh. Sometimes this feels more than routine to you – almost as though you do this too often for comfort. You shift, as slowly and unobtrusively as you can, further away from him, and then turn on your side, clutching to your pillow, even though it can't make up for the intense loss you feel, without him pressed up against your body.  
  
 _A love so blind I just can't see  
Still I can't seem to close my eyes  
And lie there under Florida skies_  
  
You jerk awake, sitting upright.  
  
Beads of sweat are running down your cheeks, and your eyes feels puffy, almost like you've been crying. You swipe the back of your hand across your face anyway, just in case. You try to remember what you were dreaming of, and then when you do, you wish you hadn't. It's painful to even think about, and for a second, your breath catches in your throat, and you wish you were anywhere but here, next to someone you know you can never have, and can't help wanting.   
  
The silence is blinding, deafening, and it scares you. You take deep breaths, till you can hear his breathing mingled with yours. A hand creeps out from under the blankets to cover his, and you squeeze his fingers gently, if only to reassure yourself he's still real – he hasn't left you, and he probably isn't going to.  
  
"Jace?" You whisper, knowing it's a long shot, but trying anyway.  
  
"Mmmhh."  
  
You think you might be shocked, because he's never this easy to rouse, but he shifts a little, and you know he's at least partially awake. "Do you remember the time in Florida? When we watched the sunset together? And escaped from security, and worried Justin so bad he didn't talk to us for a week after we got back? And all the times we stood with the fans in the crowds and laughed at them and yelled along with them for no good reason? Do you remember, Jace?"  
  
"Lance." His voice is thick with sleep, and when he opens his eyes, they're clouded with sleep, too. "Go to sleep, baby."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Mmmh. Look at pictures tomorrow, if you wanna."  
  
He's slurring a little, but not so bad you can't understand what he's saying.   
  
"Kay," you say softly, but he's already sleeping again. You slump back down against the pillows, knowing you're not going to get much sleep tonight. You close your eyes, but all you can see is the vivid canvas of hues of golds and reds, painting the sky in streaks of colour, and the soft tinkle of laughter in the distance.  
  
The memories run through your head, and you think you might be going crazy. You miss those times, though, because you really were happy. And innocent. And gullible. And sometimes those are things you take for granted, but you really can't get them back once they're lost. You wonder what it's like, sometimes, feeling like a child. Carefree. God knows you've forgotten by now.  
  
You shut your eyes a little tighter, ignoring the tightness in your chest when your nightmare starts replaying a little. You grab JC's hand, clutching it in your own like a lifeline, and tell yourself that's he's real, and he'll still be there in the morning, and wait for your breath to even out.  
  
 _I hear the raindrops dance in my mind  
Kind of like these teardrops  
They fall and yet they fear not  
The betraying trail they leave behind_  
  
You like watching the rain, you like dancing in the rain, you like kissing in the rain, you like walking in the rain. You think, generally, you like the rain. It's comforting, reassuring; something that lets you hide your tears from whoever might care enough to notice – you're not sure there are many of those people left, but you don't like showing your weaknesses anyway, and you're glad for the distraction.  
  
You get out of bed, blinking the sleep away from your eyes, going to the window and pulling up the blinds slowly so you can enjoy the scenery. You stand there for a good half hour, knowing the light doesn't bother JC, and then pad downstairs softly in your pajamas. You get the coffee going, and pick up the paper as you pour yourself a cup.  
  
You read about the murder rates fluctuating – wonder if it's all a hoax – and then turn over to the next page, where they're reviewing Justin's album, and you skim through that, noting the occasional 'great' and 'brilliant' that jumps out at you. You don't know how long you're in there, because suddenly you smile as you feel lips against the back of your neck, and JC's hands are cold on your skin.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hey." You turn around, raising an eyebrow. "Ready already?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm meeting Chris for a drink in about half an hour."  
  
Your spirits sink considerably, even as you force a smile, trying not to think about the way he doesn't ask you along. "Great. Um. Have fun?"  
  
"We always do." He doesn't notice your tight-lipped smile, or the hesitation in your voice. Sometimes you wonder if he's just faking it all. You turn back to your paper as he busies himself with a cup of coffee, reading the articles on water consumption, and pop music, and rising oil prices.  
  
It surprises you when the paper gets wet. You rub the moisture off the page hastily, hoping you haven't smudged anything. You keep reading, though, and ignore the way your vision keeps blurring. The tears start to fall, soon – you can't keep them back for long – and you blink hard, rubbing your eyes fiercely.  
  
"Lance?"  
  
You lower the newspaper, and manage a weak smile. "Yeah?"  
  
He doesn't notice the tear tracks on your face, though God only knows why, and kisses your cheek, oblivious to mostly everything but himself and the date with Chris. "I'll be back soon, okay? There's that party thing tonight."  
  
"I know, Jace." You can't help sounding the slightest bit annoyed – you've never forgotten a function before, why should tonight be any different?  
  
"Okay, then. Bye, Lance!"  
  
You don't return the 'bye' as he walks out the door, shutting it behind him. You put down the paper, and go upstairs, falling on the bed, burying your face in a pillow, trying not to cry. Then you get up, and promptly spill the contents of your breakfast – very nasty looking coffee – all over the floor. Then you sigh and bury your head in your hands, knowing the dinner is going to be a disaster.  
  
 _And I want to understand  
Yeah, I want to understand  
It seems you want to hold my hand  
But I know you love another man  
And I just wanna understand_  
  
You want to understand how he can do it – how he can live with you even though he loves someone else. You would do it, if you could. Except the thought of not having him in your life is enough to send you to your knees, ready to beg and plead and do whatever else you might have to do to keep him with you.   
  
Fuck dignity. Fuck pride. You don't need either of those to survive. And if you were without him, you wouldn't have anything to live for, so it wouldn't matter.  
  
He turns away from you when he sees Chris later that night – the same way he always does – and goes over to talk to him, laughing and flirting in a way he never does with you. You smile at everyone and ignore their knowing glances and sympathetic looks, pretending it doesn't matter, pretending that your heart isn't aching, pretending that all he's doing is catching up with an old friend.  
  
You know better, but you pretend anyway. It's easier like this.  
  
It's not that he's being cruel, you know that. He's just... JC. Oblivious as always.  
  
And when he doesn't look over at you for the rest of the night, you pretend you aren't going to beg him to fuck you when you get home. You pretend you aren't going to hope that he finally tells you he loves you when he's satiated and curled up into you, eyelids heavy, mind hazy with sleep.   
  
You pretend you aren't going to cry when he doesn't.


End file.
